


V for vigourous f______

by sharkie



Series: the filth city [2]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Election 1896, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, POV Third Person, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-23 09:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: Everything in the world is about sex, except for misattributing random quotes to the Epigrammatic Irishman, which is about power.





	V for vigourous f______

**Author's Note:**

> the summary is based on lornacrowley's Tumblr post about oscar wilde

It’s over.

Hastings Square has finally started to clear. The Implacable Detective and the Dauntless Temperance Campaigner share an awkward cup of tea. The Bishop of Southwark still grips the edge of a table, still pale-faced. All of these political figures have white rosettes prominently pinned to their clothing. How has it come to this?

The Jovial Contrarian's loyal, long-suffering aides are currently preoccupied with draining the last of the alcohol. The Contrarian's brief respite is interrupted by Sinning Jenny's approach. She sits on the bench beside his wheeled chair and pats his knee over his blanket, more firmly than it looks; he lays a gentle hand atop hers, fingers curling. A mere sideways glance incites tenderness that even threatens to overwhelm. Being spared from a year of infernal influence or royal monstrosity can do that to a person.

He smiles. She smiles. Behind him, a large smoke plume has risen from Blythenhale’s location. Her white rosette pin burns in her pocket.

Jenny's careers necessitate superior multitasking. So, as she pictures Feducci standing over the ruins of her former residence, satisfied with his biggest and most lasting change to the political and literal landscape, she also recalls hearing that the Contrarian disparaged her tenure. Ineffectual, he’d called her. Ineffectual. Naturally, it all adds up to a nameless desire to own _something._ That leads to the gleeful remembrance of what she _does._

She leans in and confides, “I have a cock-shaped nodule of trembling amber with your name on it.”

The Contrarian’s eyes go wide. “Really?” He pauses. “My real name or my sobriquet? Those are rather different lengths -”

Jenny mimes an approximation of its size with her free hand, plus the fact that she can attach it to a harness for her hips. His breath audibly catches. His grip tightens - then he wrenches her hand off him and kisses her knuckles in a futile attempt to hide how he needs to adjust his blanket.

“Visit me tomorrow,” he croaks, now actively pushing her hand away, probably to resist guiding it elsewhere.

“Mayor’s orders?”

“Mmph.” He kisses her knuckles again and wheels away.

* * *

Jenny responds to the Contrarian's joke about backdoor negotiations with a curt laugh and a smack on the arm.

He's lying with his chin on a pillow and another beneath his hips, nightshirt bunched up so his prick barely brushes fabric. The perpetual tightness below his waist has considerably loosened thanks to a warm bath, a glass of wine, and her cock rubbing his until he moaned and spilt days' worth of tension into their combined grip. (While stretching him, she'd offered to use her mouth. He’d declined, reasoning that it would be difficult for her to argue with her tongue buried in his rear. Not _impossible._ But difficult.) She keeps his rumpled necktie close at hand while the rest of his clothes are scattered throughout the room. It's a promising combination of decisions; lack of ingenuity has never been a flaw of hers.

Speaking of which, Jenny’s well-oiled phallus is a marvel of modern engineering comparable to his monochromatic lanterns, curved upwards and coloured like aged honey. Kneeling behind him, she drags it along the crack of his arse with the gravity of an artist's brush. For once, the Contrarian is eager to accommodate: he holds himself open, his excited trembling rivalling the amber's. She slides the dildoe between his buttocks. The tapered tip encircles his hole. It pushes past the initial resistance - and, frustratingly, she pauses.

“How is this?”

“Capital. Fuck me,” he instructs, through a mouthful of pillow.

He can hear the smirk in her voice. “Yes, Mayor.”

The Contrarian had said those words to Jenny two years ago, in this bed, as she stuck her cunt in his face and told him in no uncertain terms that he was going to lick until he was wetter than she was. He does love symmetry. But it soon becomes clear that her slim, dextrous fingers are a far cry from the dildoe - it's bigger and hard and unyielding, more rigid than a real cock and less immediately satisfying than massaging his prostate. Still, he's no stranger to discomfort, and anything worth doing is worth waiting for Jenny to do while he spouts snide remarks.

“Put your back into it,” he complains, after the first few minutes have failed to produce a toe-curling result.

Nails rake down _his_ back. “That's not how it works - ”

“You’re being gentle.” He grins at how her nails dig deeper, the smallest quiver of indignation escaping her otherwise impeccable veneer of control. “I don’t want gentle. Do you think I won people over through patience and painstaking caution? That cock of yours ought to enter me the way I entered politics: abruptly, loudly, and with breathtaking force - ”

“Only hitting its target the second time,” Jenny suggests. 

His laughter lapses into a surprised moan as she adjusts her angle and thrusts and _there_ it is. Perhaps she was teasing after all. He's about to voice his suspicion when she eases the phallus out and looses a staggered exhale as she swiftly pushes back in - as if it's a great relief to breach him again - and he must disguise a bout of speechlessness with more laughter. Inch by inch, she penetrates his most secret place, a steady in-out-in-out synchronised with his breathing.

It stops. Grunting, he clenches around what's inside him.

“Good?” she checks.

“There's always room for improvement,” says the Contrarian, airily, before biting his lip at the burn.

“Not here.” Jenny rubs her thumb over where her instrument disappears into his pucker. “You're full.”

“Already?” he pants. “Don't hold back. I want all of your cock.”

“You have it, petal.”

“Oh.” He does his best to sound like he’s politely concealing disappointment and not like his own prick is twitching and dribbling onto the sheets. “That's...satisfactory, I suppose. What is this doing for you?” Palms planted on the mattress, he pushes back, just the slightest bit, hoping to startle a reaction from her before a verbal response.

He _almost_ succeeds. “Mmm, thank you for asking. The dildoe’s base rubs my pearl whenever I move, plus I feel those wonderful vibrations. Very much.”

“What a shame - I thought you'd like to be on the receiving end for once. So to speak.”

“Help me feel even better,” says Jenny, all light and good-natured and utterly pretending. She settles into a rhythm that grazes his prostate on every other downstroke, alternating between long glides and rapid swivels - nice, but nowhere near enough to bring him rapture. “I can't decide whether I'd prefer to hear you articulate surrender in great detail or reduce you to totally incoherent defiance.”

“Why limit your options?” he demands. “I'd aim for both and more.”

 _I'm familiar with your history of self-sabotage,_ she'll say, _but do you often think about how you would fuck yourself?_ And he'll say, _Someone has to._ And she'll say -

She doesn't dignify his insinuation with so much as a scoff, instead opting to brace her hands on his back and switch from languid strokes to short, sharp thrusts as he hides a smile in the pillow. The irony is, he's actually easy to please. The dildoe's length, girth, vibrations, texture, curve - he loves it all, catalogues and relishes each sensation despite craving the extra edge that greater vigour would grant. Just dwelling on it rouses his nascent cockstand to stiffness. Thrusts slow, then hasten without warning, compensating for erratic accuracy with speed; a delicious twist of her hips has him gasping.

“That said, you have an excellent sense of rhythm,” wheezes the Contrarian. “In another life, you could’ve joined an orchestra!” Swept into the throes of passion, he tends to ramble. More than usual. “It’s funny - in debate, the 'angle' and the 'thrust' are similar concepts, but here, they're separate factors to consider - ”

Jenny clucks and leans forward to ruffle his hair. She meant to rake her nails across his scalp, he’s certain. He thinks. “Are you admitting that I work harder than you?”

 _“No._ I’m merely examining the semantic difference - _ah!_ Ah, God, Jenny, that's - acceptable. So very acceptable. Nnngh, _oh_. Marvellous...ly acceptable.” Instincts war - to flex his spinchter around the dildoe, or to spread his legs wider. Torn between equally enticing avenues for pleasure, he reverts to the utmost reliable: irritation _._ “Put your hands on my waist.” She obliges him. “Hmm. Put your hands on my back.” She obliges him again. “...Put your hands on my waist.”

“Petal,” she warns.

“Be thankful I’m not ordering your hands onto _your_ back,” he points out, tone cold and clipped, beaming to himself. “That would be tricky.”

“I could do it.” She withdraws until only the dildoe's tip is left inside, much to his vocal chagrin. “But then I couldn't do this.”

Gripping the Contrarian's hips, she slowly pulls him onto her cock as she plunges into him, and he yelps in delight. If he could meet each thrust, he would; he would goad her into a punishing pace through teasing and his own zeal, rule every moment with his wit. Only the risk of a cramp keeps his hips near-stilled - and restraint heightens his awareness, forces him to focus on her expertise and the soft moans and small sighs that confirm her own enjoyment.

Disarmingly soft hands roam his body, knead his buttocks. Her fingertips ghost over his stomach and drift tantalisingly lower as the dildoe's tip swivels in tight circles right above his prostate. He tries to muffle a prolonged moan into his arm, then the pillow when it proves insufficient, rationing obvious approval in order to pre-empt complacency. Warmth intensifies the amber's vibrations, and a high-pitched keen lodges in his throat, stays trapped there with concentration.

Jenny’s groan isn’t wholly lustful. “Dear…”

“Hmm?”

The tip catches against his rim. “Please don’t make me say it.”

Well, now he _has_ to, whatever it is. The Contrarian cants his hips, repeating the questioning sound.

She snakes a dainty hand around to tug his cockstand and whispers, “I want to hear you.”

The words punch him in the gut, so rarely are they spoken to him. Coupled with the force of her reentry, he’s propelled to the very edge, choking out a warning - and cries out from the denial that she inflicts by squeezing the base of his cock, from the accompanying electric snap of her hips, from her nails in his back.

“Do you know why cats shriek and bite each other while mating?” he babbles. “Pre-Fall, we assumed that they yowl in pain, but some highly candid felines have revealed that both acts function as warnings -”

“That’s not what I meant!”

He digs an elbow into the mattress and wiggles as much as he dares, smearing his prick's wetness against the pillow beneath him. “So _shut me up.”_

Any other lover might lunge for the bait, maybe twist their fingers into his hair and yank as they lost themselves in a brutal pounding, whereupon he could assert dominance through blithe commentary. Jenny slithers forth to drape herself over him, and releases a long breath and an indulgent moan as she rolls her hips in a single sensuous motion; it isn't anger that drives each subsequent thrust, but calm skill. Unbelievable. And anticipatory silence costs him precious time to talk. She pats his head, around the same time he accepts that his challenge didn't work. Simply _asking_ doesn't occur to him.

“You know,” the Contrarian pants, “I think you’re enjoying this even more than when you were mayor.”

“I am.” For seconds, flesh slapping flesh is the loudest sound in the room, as if her explanation actually requires serious consideration. “Fucking someone while in power demonstrates that power. It's fun. But fucking the person who’s in power? That's special.”

“In that case, I - ”

“I still fucked you first,” Jenny adds. “You never fuck me.” She kisses his cheek. “Mr Mayor. Sir.”

She has to squeeze the base of his cock again. Good God. As she releases him, he pictures her pulling out and reaching a frantic crisis by rubbing her cock between his thighs, the way she's entrapped his cockstand between her stockings several times before. The thought thrills him to giddiness; he's about to share it when another, better idea comes to mind.

“I've been reviewing your dossier for my records,” says the Contrarian. “Remind me...what's your sign?”

“Hazard,” she replies, dryly.

“I'm a Crow. We’re intelligent, resourceful, quick-thinking. But prone to daydreaming. At present, I’m imagining you.”

“Goodness, I should hope so.” That's the tone of someone aware that they star in more carnal fantasies than ballerinas star in Carnelian-inspired productions. She rests her chin on his shoulder and has the gall to _nuzzle_. “How do I look?”

“Your body screams sex.” Jenny’s breath hitches, as do her hips, mid-thrust, leaving the dildoe wedged in a splendid position that lets its vibrations tickle his prostate. “Flushed from exertion and arousal, you take to your task with hooded lids over hazy eyes. Sweat has beaded on your forehead and above your parted lips, and moistens that lovely valley between your heaving breasts. Your thighs tremble - burning - but the ache serves as an inexorable pull towards your completion, which you plan to reach after reveling in mine, though you're more and more tempted by immediate gratification.” The Contrarian grins wickedly. “Now, tell me I’m right.”

There’s an amused edge to her flat tone: “Try not to talk yourself into crisis before I can bugger it out of you.”

“Well, perhaps you should drive that cute little cock harder, then.”

People would kill to pay to hump her leg. She came to him, suggesting this, and he complains about her technique. For fun. He's going to enjoy every second of being made to regret it.

Jenny withdraws without a word and climbs off him. Curious, he props himself up on his elbows and peers over his shoulder - she's opening the bottle of oil they'd used earlier. Ignoring his stare, she drizzles a liberal amount over the crack of his arse, massages it around his hole. Two fingers work inside, down to the knuckles, soon followed by a third; besides pumping them in and out, she strokes his walls while avoiding that special spot. He sneaks peeks at her ministrations and, briefly, worries that she intends to finish him like this. Then her fingers retreat, and she applies oil to the dildoe. Has he somehow triggered the Treachery of Clocks? Why won't she look at him? Did he hurt her feelings by calling her cock 'cute'? Isn't that a compliment? Is her ego so fragile that it was the 'little' part?

Important as they are, these questions must wait, because she positions the slick tip at his entrance and sheathes herself in one thrust. His elbows instantly give way. He will categorically deny squealing. It was really more of a dignified squeak.

The sudden surge of heat helps him fight the urge to tense. She's struck his prostate - and does it again and again with astounding accuracy, hitting the same sensitised spot in precise jabs till it feels tender and engorged. Her thrusts no longer vary. It would be overwhelming if not for the depth of his desire, and if he couldn't savour each aspect of his reaction in turn. Fingertips trace a question on his skin; he gasps, “Yes.”

Jenny loops something around the Contrarian's neck and pulls it taut. It takes him a second to realise that it's his discarded tie poised to function as makeshift reins. A rasp of _“petal”,_ and he moans _“yes”,_ and she gathers both ends in her fist to tug in a manner that's somewhat more aggressive than a polite suggestion and moderately more polite than outright choking him. On instinct, he bares his throat for her though she takes him from behind. That earns him an appreciative hum before the bed frame slams into the wall - a flimsier one might struggle to stay intact. Exquisite pressure spreads from the base of his spine and shoots throughout his groin, and he groans as his lucidity undulates along with his body.

As always, he derives intense pleasure from contradiction. She knows to relent only when he pushes back, and together, they see-saw sensation between a novel type of pain and clearer bliss. Gnawing his knuckles provides a grounding counterpoint to how she fucks him; it does little to stifle his noises. Good. They've entered the sole area where he's willing to admit that disjointed words communicate better than complete sentences. Harsh as it is, each thrust erodes weeks of stress and anger and anxiety. It's a luxury not to think, to succumb to pleasure at the hands of someone who cares for him, who _voted_ for him...

“Petal, it’s good, isn't it?” coos Jenny. He moans happily and makes a show of writhing from the waist-up. “I can't hear you.” He moans louder, rolls his hips. _“I can't hear you.”_

The dread that coils at the bottom of his stomach perversely thickens the desire solidified there.

No matter how the Contrarian nods or squirms or emits enthusiastic sounds of increasing urgency, she continues asking for a response in a saccharine singsong, slowing thrusts till they threaten to cease altogether. She drops the necktie, “in case it's inhibiting” him, and straddles him under the guise of straining to listen. His growing tension adds friction to each forward motion and outward drag. Frisson and the prospect of denial conspire against him, against the desperation to finish; he's beside himself with conflicting emotion.

“I worry when you're quiet,” she sighs. “So, if you don't answer within the next five seconds, I’ll assume that’s a ‘no’ - ”

“Yes!” he cries. “Yes, damn it, it’s good! It's fantastic, God, please don't stop - ”

“It's the best, isn't it?”

Now his tongue feels marginally looser than his arsehole. “I am scoured inside-out, upended, undone and reforged in the fire of your passion; I love being fucked; I love being fucked by you, _domina_ _,_ my darling, my rightfully popular but horribly ineffectual ex-mayor, I - ”

“Say ‘yes, Jenny, I agree’.”

Cheeks burning, he claws at the sheets and gasps, “Yes, Jenny, I agree.”

Jenny shoves his head down with a soft growl. “Keep saying it.”

“Yes, Jenny, I agree!” Fuck. “Yes, Jenny, I agree, yes, Jenny, I - _ah!”_ His fists bunch in the sheets as his prick drools slightly more than he does. “Jenny - oh, oh, God, mmm, yes - ”

“Oh, petal.” Her thrusts turn shallow, jerky - woefully incongruous with her hand rubbing between his shoulder blades in what may be intended as a soothing fashion. “Finish your thought.”

What thought? Was he thinking? “You're right! _You're right!”_ he yelps, panicked.

The grinding...well, _grinds_ to a halt. He almost screams. He definitely pounds the mattress with one fist.

“What am I right about?” Jenny presses, sounding delighted.

“I don't know! I just know that you're right!” The Contrarian lets out a strangled gasp of frustration while she laughs and briefly withdraws to add more oil. He can't help but chuckle, too, turning his head to glimpse her eyes narrowed in concentration, an interesting curl to her ruby lips. He decides that he likes it, then shoves his face into the pillow, blushing.

The rhythm doesn't quite resume. Instead, she rocks into him at a steady pace, less aggressive but very much resolved. A buzzing warmth gradually pools low in his body. 

“Stroke my prick? Your mayor commands you,” he adds, unconvincingly.

“I don’t think so.” Tsking, Jenny pins his hand to the mattress; the contact makes his heart leap into his throat. “You can come without touching yourself.”

That may be true, but… “I can't.”

Her grip tightens on his hip. “You _can.”_

“Jen- _ny,”_ he whines. “I absolutely, definitely can’t.”

“Yes, you clearly, obviously can.”

“No, I assuredly, patently, unequivocally can’t.”

On and on this goes, until she tires of the game and shoves the Contrarian's face back into the pillow as a temporary solution. He counts to ten and lifts his head. 

“You wanted to know my Chiropteromantic sign?” Jenny questions, mock-weary. “The Rose. Sensitive and emotional.” And prone to sneezing fits - he jots a mental note to over-pepper her soup at his first mayoral dinner. “It took years to hone those traits into reliable advantages. But the bat-colonies also dictate that I'm attractive, and clever enough to use it well. People reveal more to me than they should.”

“I've said nothing that you don’t already know,” he claims.

She doesn’t reply until she retrieves the tie and loops it back around his neck.

“Last night, I retired early to bury my fingers in my quim while imagining your reaction when you learned the results. I’m no Crow, but it was so vivid that I repeated it several times.” Oh God. Oh dear God. “Surprise must have lit your expression. I pictured your eyes glowing like they do when I lick your cock. I doubt you gasped quite as brazenly; I prefer to think that your mouth dropped open, at least. Ever the politician, you quickly offered commiserations to your opponents, your voice raspy from shock. And after we parted? The broad smile didn't leave your face for hours. By the end of the day, your jaw hurt more than it did after _my_ victory congress. I'm sure you remembered it.

“You're the winner, sir,” croons Jenny, practically bouncing on his arse. “Some may even consider you a warped type of saviour.” Beauty and a husky voice can obscure mediocrity - but her words are as calculated as they are raw, as heated as they are conversational, specially weighed to unbalance him. “And tonight I'm fucking you far past the coherence that you treasure so dearly, and you're going to come on my cock, on my command.”

The Contrarian shatters the expectant pause with laughter. “You seem to forget that I possess the greater degree of rhetorical skill here.” She artfully bristles in silence, he'll give her that. “Oh, you speak well; that was a sweet description. But you're trying to sell snake oil to an enterprising serpent. Meanwhile, you excel at matters of the body and nearly match me in terms of the mind. So, I suggest that you think about where to touch me - ”

“Come.” He shakes his head, snarling, snarls again at the peck on his cheek, at the insistent tug of his tie. Then she says his name, his real name. “Come, _now.”_

Paroxysm radiates with no emission, unless one counts the continuous trickle of clear fluid; bliss climbs his bowed spine and wracks his whole body, rather than staying concentrated around his tackle. She fucks him through it, telling him that he likes everything she's doing, and he fervently concurs. He's certain that she takes him almost as fast as the amber vibrates. His tongue feels stuck on nothing. His body feels too small to contain his ecstasy. Harder, harder, and she presses herself against him, wraps an arm around his waist, and holds the necktie's ends between her teeth as she pulls with a growl. He sobs from the onslaught of sensation, wants to twist to get her deeper, have her hit that spot as hard as her words did while he babbles variations and amalgamations of _more_ _damn it_ and _yes fuckmefuckmefuckme._

It's impossible to tell when crisis ends and when the aftershocks begin. Thoroughly wrecked, he grabs her wrist to kiss the back of her hand - and she swears hoarsely and ruts against him in graceless jabs, overcome by her own crisis. At least he retains the presence of mind to appreciate the rarity of her unreserved pleasure. Its length and intensity resembles his; it's beautiful to hear, beautiful to bear throughout his residual shivers and the dull throb of his cockstand. Slowing her thrusts, she collapses onto his back, shuddering. She stills inside him.

“Did you come?” she asks, casually.

“Yes. I was wrong,” he groans. “I was wrong _IwaswrongIwas_ \- ”

Jenny pulls the Contrarian’s arms behind his back and pins them there, using his wrists for leverage as she scoots up to fully mount him and fucks him with her feet planted flat on the mattress. At this angle, she penetrates him deeply, and he shifts so the pillow glances the underside of his prick, enough to tease without distracting him from the main source of his excitement nor the occasional yanks of his tie. Soon he’s spouting gibberish as promised, overwhelmed by another crisis before the tingles have vanished from the first. He may or may not start babbling about cats again. _And_ he’s still hard, unspent.

While he’s twitching and whimpering, she extricates herself and rolls him onto his side. He hears her slathering the dildoe with the leftover oil. Then she flops onto the mattress, flush against his back, and he shakily draws one leg up and cries _“Jenny!”_ as she breaches him - the guttural moan he receives in response encourages him to repeat her name. It’s good, so good, unhurried this time, her hands steering his movements on her phallus, his neglected cockstand in view, easily within reach. He forces himself to look at it. When she lowers a hand to fondle his balls, his eyes water, he wants to come, he wants to _come_ -

She pulls out again, excruciatingly slow, and flips him onto his back. His gaze lands on her cock - God, that gorgeous beast was inside him. The dildoe was, too!

Jenny unstraps the harness. There’s no time to mourn its removal, because she’s straddling him and she's so wet that he can feel it slick on her inner thighs. Her breasts spill over the top of her chemise; he laves a nipple before being pushed down. Panting, she swirls her swollen nub around the very tip of his cockstand, slides her soaked slit back and forth.

“You would've liked to serve under me,” she states, gaze dark with desire.

The Contrarian reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, Jenny, I agree.”

Back straightened, she sinks onto him with the beginning of a hiss - a hiss that peters into a lusty exhale as he clutches her hips and guides her with a gentleness that elicits mutual shivers.

Inside, she's feverish, silkier than scarlet stockings (hers are satin, but that's not the point). The bedsprings squeak from her fervour. Content to watch her cup her breasts, he occupies himself elsewhere. He toys with the trimmed curls surrounding her sex, gives her rear a few playful pinches; skimming his touch over the pronounced muscles of her taut stomach garners a series of contended sighs.

“My clever constituent,” he purrs.

A surprised moan escapes Jenny. Her hot cunt spasms around him, very nearly setting him off, but he holds on through each wave of paroxysm purely so he can watch her with a sharp gaze as he frigs her pearl with two callused fingers. She throws her head back and gyrates in a mesmerising motion, riding him till her cries have quietened and her powerful convulsion has ebbed into flutters.

Catching her breath, she raises an eyebrow at the Contrarian's smirk. Her hips snap forward, once, twice, too many times too quickly to count. She lifts her hand, open-palmed, and swings it through the air near his face. Just the threat of a slap makes him shout and spend in thick spurts - wildly, he wonders what quantity he’s emptying into her, what will be left of him afterwards. Her palm never meets his cheek. Instead she bears forward, covering his body with hers, and kisses him on the lips throughout his crisis.

Orgasm recedes, replaced by pleasant exhaustion. As his eyelids droop, she grants him a final lingering kiss at the corner of his smile, and he's faintly aware that she climbs off and starts to massage one of his relaxed thighs.

When he reopens his eyes, Jenny is using his chest as a pillow. (They did just soil one or two.) She blinks up at him, drowsy. She smiles. He smiles. Yesterday, he'd noted the conspicuous absence of a white rosette so prominently displayed over the past week - he can't _possibly_ imagine what he'd done to upset her. But he suspects that he knows how to apologise.

The Contrarian nuzzles the top of her head and asks, “Could you bugger me again?”

“Gladly.” She rests a hand over his hip, affectionate and authoritative; he should know. “You're sure?”

“Of course.” He winks. “I'm always up for a second round.”

**Author's Note:**

> Until we receive more information about the Contrarian's disability, I headcanon that he has spastic diplegia. I based my decision on what's in-game and tried to research as much as possible, including reading sex blogs/sex-related articles written by people with spastic diplegia or other types of cerebral palsy. But I'm able-bodied, so please take my portrayal with a grain of salt and let me know if there's anything wrong!
> 
> i'm never going to spell 'dildo' normally again


End file.
